


Come Back To Me

by infinitytimesinfinity



Series: Back Home [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-13 18:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5713429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitytimesinfinity/pseuds/infinitytimesinfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns from his 2 year hiatus.<br/>John and Sherlock can't seem to connect anymore, and suddenly they hardly even see each other. Sherlock vowed to stay away from John, still trying to protect him. He refuses to reveal his feelings.<br/>Sherlock comes back to life, taking Lestrade's cases. Until it leads him into danger, back to what he left behind...<br/>SLASH</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also on my fanfiction.net account: InfinitytimesInfinity8

It was dark and cold and the night’s silence was disturbed by the sounds of people chasing each other, of helicopters in the sky and lights pointing to the ground. There was a faint barking in the background, a dog, but the figure kept running. Right into 3 people. He felt a pain on his side, and put a hand there, just for it to brush past something solid, _a sleeping dart._ And just like that, his unconscious body fell to the ground, his face smothered by the grass and mud beneath him.

* * *

 

Once he awoke, the man knew what _had_ happened and what was _about_ to happen. His body was stretched; his arms were bound and stretched outwards and apart, but his legs were left free. He still had his trousers on but they had removed his shirt. Wounds still healing and deep scars from long ago, but not _that_ long according to his estimation, were revealed. There were multiple whip marks still bleeding— the rest had already scarred –and other scars from knives and brass knuckles and all ns adorned his body. The room was cold and did little to prevent him from shivering. The room was dank and humid and horrible. The paint had mostly fallen from the wall but there were patches where it was still falling. There was a lone window behind him, _barred_ , of course and a lightbulb in front of him, in the centre of the room; the only light source apart from the moon through the window.

From what he could tell, he’d been stuck here for around 3 months and 17 days but he wasn’t certain. Each torturer had different methods than the last. One of the previous one had taken to pumping him full of different drugs, all with their side effects and consequences. He was not certain exactly which type of drugs had been used on him, but he knew the aftermath of them had been horrible. After the man with the drugs had been swapped for another, and the drugs had stopped, he’d gone through withdrawal. For at least 4 different types of drugs.

A tall man stood next to him, pacing backwards and forwards—forwards and backwards—waiting for this moment. The moment he would wake up. Looking upwards but not moving his bent head, he could see a figure sitting down in front of him, next to the wall, and he knew that steel door keeping him in was behind him. One look at the man’s shoes was enough to let him know who exactly it was that was sitting down. The man pacing, however, was another matter entirely.

The man pacing was not friendly, by any means, not that the man sitting down was, but at least he was an ally. An enemy but not like Mr. Pacing. That was his arch enemy and not his biggest concern right now. He could that the man had ran out of patience. The man grabbed his hair, with one of his brutish and rough hands, and with the other, punched him in the face. He pretended to wake up from it, knowing that if he did not, then the man wouldn’t stop there. He felt another punch, this time to his stomach, and couldn’t stop himself from grunting from the pain.

From his past experience with the other ‘interrogators’ he knew that this one would be like them. Sloppy at getting answers but good at leaving marks. Just what he needed, more physical scars to go with his mental ones. The shackles holding his arms rattled as his body shook from the physical attack.

 _“You broke in here for a reason.”_ The man started in Serbian. He was moving in front of him now, and picked up a lead pipe the size of his arm. _“Just tell us why and you can sleep.”_ Blood leaked from his mouth onto the floor. The man walked up to his face, brandishing his weapon and spoke once more. _“Remember sleep?”_ he asked rhetorically and sadistically, about to hit the man with the pipe on the head. The Serb was stopped by the man’s whispering.

 _“What?”_ The man asked and leaned closer to him. He grabbed the man’s head and held it high. The mas whispered some more into the Serb’s ear before he was interrupted by the man sitting down. His feet were crossed, on a wooden stool. His impatient voice made the Serb drop the man’s head.

_“Well? What did he say?”_

The Serb looked at the man hanging from the chins and bewildered, repeated what the man had said to him, out loud.

 _“he said that I used to work in the navy…where I had an unhappy love affair.”_ The Serb stopped for a moment, but once the man had said ‘yes…’ impatiently, he continued. _“That the electricity isn’t working in my bathroom…and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour.”_ The man finished, grabbing the other’s head. _“The coffin maker…”_ he waited for the other to continue, _“and…if I go home now…I’ll catch them at it. I knew it! I knew there was something going on.”_ And with that final remark, the Serb all but ran out of the room. Leaving the tortured man and his arch enemy alone.

 _“So, my friend.”_ The man sitting down began. _“Now it’s just you and me.”_ The man got up and continued. _“You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.”_ The man picked up the other’s head. And in English, continued.

“Now, listen to me. There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry but the holiday is over, brother dear.” And let go of the man’s head. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

* * *

 

Mycroft sat on his desk, perusing through some files. “You have been busy, haven’t you?” he asked his brother, rhetorically. Sherlock was lying down and a barber stood above him, shaving his beard. “Quite the busy little bee.” He chuckled.

“Moriarty’s network. Took me two years to dismantle it.” Sherlock answered back. His voice neutral, without feeling, and lacking in _emotion?_

“And you’re confident you have?” Mycroft asked him, this time seriously.

“The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle” He said, just as seriously.

“Yes. You got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertius. Quite a scheme.”

“Colossal”

“Anyway. You’re safe now” Mycroft said, as he threw the files onto his desk. He received a sound back from Sherlock, meaning he agreed but didn’t care to elaborate.

“Hmm”

“A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss”

“What for?” Sherlock asked, sounding completely serious.

“For wading in. In case you’ve forgotten, field work is not my natural milieu.” Mycroft stated.

Sherlock grunted as he sat up. “Wading in?” he asked back, sneering at his brother’s comment. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp” he exclaimed.

“I got you out” Mycroft said, his voice weak and somewhat confused.

“I got me out. Why didn’t you intervene sooner?” Sherlock questioned him.

“I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything.”

“You were enjoying it.” Sherlock calmly said.

“Nonsense” Mycroft disagreed.

“Definitely enjoying it.” Sherlock continued.

“Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover? Smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise, the people!”

Sherlock grunted once more as he laid back down. “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.”

“I didn’t. But the language has a Slavic root. Frequent Turkish and German loan-words. Took me a couple of hours.”

“Hmm you’re slipping”

“Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all.”

The door opened and interrupted whatever Sherlock was about to say.

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure about confronting John like this. Mycroft’s security had shown that John had gone to 221b and Sherlock was just coming out of the car.

“Are you certain you do not want to wait…and… _heal_ , Sherlock. He’s waited two years, what’s another week or two?” Mycroft asked him. Concern flashing on his face before it disappeared.

Yes, he was just as aware as Mycroft was, that John would respond violently, and most certainly physically harm him.

“If I can deal with the Serb’s, I can most _definitely_ handle John Watson” he said as he left the car.

Before Mycroft raised his window or asked the driver to pull away he said one last thing to his brother.

“Can you?”

The sleek, black car pulled away, and with it, Sherlock’s confidence. He knew that John would not be _just_ happy to see him; he’ll be angry and upset too. But Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to not be here in person. Somehow a text saying ‘Not Dead -SH’ was not enough. He had to do this. He knew that. But a part, deep in his Mind, his Mind Palace, was telling him that ‘coming back to life’, to London, was not such a great idea. He pushed it further and deeper from his mind.

He walked with his head downwards, his face hidden from view, trying his best to remain anonymous in the streets of London. It sounds easier than it is, but being a famous dead person walking around would make people start taking photos or filming him and he did not need that right now. He didn’t want people to know he was back just yet. He took out the key from his coat pocket. Oh, how good it felt to wear this coat again.  

He out the key into the lock, savouring the feel of it sink into the hole and twisting it. Oh, how you miss these simple pleasures once they’re taken from you. The door opened slightly and he pushed it further away, opening it completely. He took one step inside, hearing the floor creak under him. Mrs Hudson wasn’t in. He walked to the stairs and began climbing them, making sure to avoid the bits where he knew would make noise.

Soon he found himself behind the close door to his— _used_ to be his—flat. The door wasn’t closed, but he could only see a small portion of the room, but that was all he needed. _John_ was sitting on his chair. John on John’s chair. How he missed this! He put a hand on the door and with a gentle, but strong, push, the door was opened.

He took a step into his— _their_ , living room. The floor protested under his weight, though he knew it would do that, years of walking in this flat let him catalogue everything, he knew this flat inside out better than almost anything else.

He spoke one word. The only word that was needed. Just a plain, four letter word, spoken with such vigour and _emotion_ that it was hard to imagine for most, that it was Sherlock that said it.

_“John”_

The man in question looked up rapidly, his face in shock and confusion, and slowly he turned his head towards the doorway. Brown eyes met Jade-silver—impossible eyes. John gasped and stoop up, his face still in shock, but here Sherlock noticed the deep wrinkles by his eyes, _not due to age_ , but to stress, because of _him_.

“Sherlock?” John asked, out of breath. His eyes were red and he could see that John was holding tears-anger- _something_ back. He took a step forwards, suddenly feeling more vulnerable now. John had a way of seeing into _him_. A spectacular ability that made Sherlock open up to him, reveal anything to him, tell him whatever he wanted to hear. It was same ability that made Sherlock eat food after 3 days of nothing, the same ability that gave him control of Sherlock. That whenever he asked him to do something, though Sherlock would moan, he would do it. _For John_.

John walked so quickly, he could’ve ran, to him and engulfed him in a hug; unknowingly causing Sherlock pain and crushing his still-open wounds, making them bleed more onto the bandages under his shirt. He had no intention of revealing absolutely everything that had happened in the last two years to John. Not unless John _specifically_ asked about it.

So, Sherlock would reveal to him why he thanked his death, maybe _how_ , but he would not reveal what they had done to him, unless John asked about _that_ in particular. Feeling John’s arms around him, his breath on his neck, his chest covering him, brought back feelings he had locked away in fear of rejection. Feelings he only revealed through his music, though those around him with the exception of Mycroft, never did understand his music or what it meant or symbolised. And that was fine. He was fine with John not knowing and John not feeling the same things, but what was _not fine_ was being away from him any longer.


	2. Back Again

Sherlock put his arms around John and let his head drop onto John’s neck, hiding it in the crevice. They fit in so perfectly like that. Time could pass by around them, but as they were now, it was perfect. They could almost forget everything that happened. _Almost,_ but not quite. Sherlock could feel John’s arm tighten significantly around him and had not his face been buried in John’s chest, John would have heard his grunt. His back was on fire and he knew all of his wounds had re-opened, after all, he had just gotten them cleaned and wrapped, but no more. He couldn’t stand having anyone touch him anymore. With the exception of, _maybe_ Mycroft, he had yet to find out, and John. But John was _John_. He was a soldier and a doctor and…a teddy bear. He was a massive, human-sized teddy bear that he couldn’t resist touch him.

He could feel John’s arms go limp around him, and slowly let of him. Though as Sherlock was about to lean back, one of John’s hands buried itself in his hair and the other on the small of his back.

“ _God_ , Sherlock…you’re here…you’re _here_ …” John whispered.

And this was what broke Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m _so sorry_. I never meant for this-this to happen…I-I” he stopped himself, revelling in the feel of John’s hand brush his curls and stroke his scalp. It was surprisingly soothing and not unlike a cat, Sherlock relaxed under his touch.

John walked him to his sofa, sat him down and went into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the kettle start to boil and knew that he would finally drink John’s tea again. Nobody could make tea quite like John. He remained sitting down, keeping his head low, a subconscious and involuntary action that he was forced to do to prevent his ‘interrogators’ from doing any more damage. He could hear John mix the tea and the two spoonsful of sugar into his mug and then a separate milk-no sugar tea for himself.

John limped back to the living room carrying the teas and deposited on onto Sherlock’s hand. So the limp was back…he would have to fix that. Sherlock whispered a brief ‘thanks’ and received a nod back from John, telling him that he heard the gratitude. He breathed into the cup. John had made the Apple & Cinnamon tea that he knew would make it easier for Sherlock to fall asleep on one of those haven’t-slept-for-4-days type of cases. He blew into it gently and took a sip; the tea burning his tongue in a good way, a familiar way.

“You’re not dead?” John asked. Sherlock could tell that it wasn’t a question but merely an affirmation of the fact.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and replied with a meek ‘yes’.

“All this time…why? What possibly would have made you jump? We managed to prove Jim Moriarty was real. You didn’t have to fake your…or leave or 2 bloody years!” John exclaimed. Ah, there it was, the explosive anger both Mycroft and Sherlock knew would appear.

“I thought you were gone, Sherlock! I actually thought you had gone and…and killed yourself! WHY? Why would you do that, _to me?”_ John asked, his face slightly red from exertion and his face wild.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, swallowed, and took a deep breath. He let it out. 

“That day…one the roof, I knew that either Moriarty or I would have to die. I had 13 different methods ensured that would result in me living and him not. However, all of those methods were pointless,” he could see that he had peaked his interest, “he told me that he had 3 snipers in 3 different places; 3 bullets for 3 people.” Sherlock was interrupted by John.

“Dear God…”

But he continued, nevertheless.

“He warned me that if I did not die, then he would kill _you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson._ ” He took another sip of his tea, it was still a bit too hot, but he would endure. “I knew that if I died that day, I could never come back. If they found out I lived then they would come back to kill you, regardless to the fact that Moriarty was dead. I had planned for my fake death beforehand, making sure that I had a definite way out. But once, I ‘killed’ myself, and Moriarty was dead, I had to destroy his network; I had to get rid of every thread, every _threat_ and until I had gotten rid of them all, I couldn’t come back.” He finished, not meeting John’s eye.

“I had _no_ idea…Oh God, Sherlock…you mean all this time…you were taking out all of Moriarty’s subordinates? All of them? No more secret ancient Chinese numbers sprayed on buildings or fake Vermeer paintings showing up for 30 million quid?” John chocked out a laugh. “I’ve missed this…you bloody prick. You could’ve just told me! Two years I thought you were dead” there was the anger.

“It was paramount that you were not aware of this. If they noticed that you were not upset or angry or _grieving_ then they would’ve been suspicious and they did keep an eye out on all three of you…” Sherlock trailed off, obviously unsure of the situation. He had expected a lot more anger and a few tears but this…this was calm and then angry and then sad and then angry again.

“I’m still mad at you…you prick…come here” and he held out his arms for Sherlock to enter. Sherlock all but ran into them again. They both knew they needed it, a confirmation that the other was safe and happy and _alive_. Sherlock positioned himself completely on top of John, though he weighed practically nothing and this had John frowning, but the doctor put it out of his mind for the moment. “You’ve missed a lot…Lestrade and Scotland Yard haven’t been able to do anything without you there to help them” Sherlock noticed the sudden change of subject, but decided to go with it.

“Hmm, yes. I would think so.” And they both laughed again, just as they used to, but not exactly the same. These two years had changed the both exponentially.

* * *

 

Somehow, they both managed to fall asleep as they were and would have remained like so, if they were not woken by a high-pitch scream. Sherlock bolted upwards and flinched as John’s hand secured his waist. They looked towards their entryway and say their housekeep— _landlady_ , a shocked expression on her face and her eyes red.

Sherlock jumped out of John’s lap, blushing a bit, and walked up to Mrs. Hudson, placing his hands on either side of her head. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson” he simply said, and has before with John, he was engulfed in a hug.

“Oh Sherlock…You ridiculous man! I am so cross with you. Now, I will bring dinner up, we will eat and then, young man, you _will_ explain what this was about!” She left the room quickly, leaving the men confused and one of them slightly scared…

Sherlock looked at John and John laughed at the expression on his face. It wasn’t long before Sherlock joined him.

“Mrs. Hudson angry is probably the scariest and most wonderful thing I have ever faced.” John told Sherlock.

“And you invaded Afghanistan…” Sherlock replied. Soon they were both in a fit of laughter again, as they set out the table for their dinner.

* * *

 

Dinner was an awkward affair, for Sherlock mostly, but once he explained, in less detail, about what had happened in the prior two years, it became a nice affair. They ate silently but comfortably and cleaned up together.

Once Mrs. Hudson left, the boys went back to their sofas, cups of tea on their hands once more.

“Have you let anyone else know you’re back?” John asked him, and Sherlock knew that it wasn’t an angry question but a sincere and curious one.

“No. You and Mrs. Hudson were the first. If you don’t count Mycroft, but that’s not important right now…”

“Do you think you’ll go back to taking cases from Scotland Yard? The world knows you were real and they know what Moriarty did. Anyone would want you to take their case.” Sherlock could tell that John was disappointed about Mycroft, but pushed it back.

“Tomorrow. I’ll speak to Lestrade tomorrow. Right now I am tired and going to bed.” He said as he stood up, taking his mug to the sink.

“You? Tired? Are you sure you’re Sherlock Holmes?” John spluttered. This was not what he had expected from Sherlock. He thought that Sherlock would’ve been colder and less _emotional_ , but no. Sherlock seemed genuinely apologetic but then, he always was good at pretending. John hated to be like this, but he knew that he couldn’t open himself up back to Sherlock like he did years ago. The trust wasn’t there… Yes, he knew why Sherlock did it and why it was important for everyone to think he had committed suicide, but that didn’t make him any less frustrated.

* * *

 

Morning came, and with it, the memories of the previous night. Sherlock was lying on his bed, in his room, facing the ceiling. He knew that John didn’t trust him completely anymore, that much was obvious. But there was something else John was suppressing, something that Sherlock could not find out. To be fair, there was a lot that Sherlock didn’t want John to find out and so he vowed to give John his space. That he would stay out of his business and be with him only as flatmates. He would not ask John to accompany him anywhere anymore, or tell him if things were dangerous or force him to put up with Sherlock.

So, Sherlock would take every case he could and bury himself in them. He would act as if John was just the person he was sharing his home with, and not his friend or anything else. John would be a stranger he knew things about. He also knew that if John asked him to do something, then he would probably do it. But right now, Sherlock knew he had to face Lestrade and ask him for every case in the past two years. Once he finished those, he would deal with whatever Mycroft needed from him.

He got up slowly, trying not to disturb his injuries but failed with a grunt. His back had re-opened last night and he could feel blood gluing his shirt to his bandages and that the bandages needed changing. He had refused medication when he was seen by Mycroft’s best physician. Too many drugs had been pumped into him by various of his interrogators, not just the Serbs, and he was adamant about not having any type of them in his system.

He walked to his en suite bathroom. He took off his shirt gingerly, not wanting to raise his arms much, to avoid any unnecessary pain. He still had deep, red and open marks on his wrists from the shackles. It was a good thing he always wore long sleeves, nobody would find it suspicious if he wore one, _and_ it would hide his injuries and scars. He removed the rest of his clothes, standing naked, the bandages being the only thing covering parts of his flesh.

He started to remove his bandages, but fell against the sink with a groan. Hot white pain flashed through his eyes. He took a few deep breaths and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. He had dark smudges under his eyes, and his skin was a pasty white, _too pale_ , and his eyes were red. He looked back at his chest and continued where he had left off, slowly unwrapping the rest of the bandages.

His back was a mess. The slash marks from the whips were bleeding and a few drops fell to the floor, there were circular burns on his back, forearms and upper thighs. The whip marks covered all of his back, ranging from thick and long to thin and small. They criss-crossed each other and there was not one part of his back that wasn’t scarred. The circular burns, _cigarette_ burns, had the same diameter and circumference, _obviously_. There were cuts from sharp knives and carving knives and serrated blades on his shoulders and torso. His front was marked, but not as badly as his back.

There were marks spread out over his chest. There were a few scars over his heard making an X shape, avoid his nipple and it was deep. There were knife marks on his sides and some were still open. He knew this would hurt, but right now a small masochistic part of his brain, made him want to do it. He turned the shower on to very hot water, practically boiling and stood under it. He gasped from the pain, not just from the hot water scorching his pain, but also from the water beating down on his open wounds. Along with his cigarette burns on his thighs, there were some scars made from sharp knives. All of his scars and wounds were made from different torturers. But they all seemed to rely on the same methods.

Scorching water met the open and vicious raw wrists and he groaned louder. It hadn’t been the only time he was shackled and the prolonged use of them made sure that they would scar badly. Looking at his arms, the needle marks from the drugs stood out among his alabaster skin. They were small blue-purple circles all over his skin. _Twenty? Thirty? And that was just on one arm._

He focused back on the pain and let it rush through him. Looking down, he could see blood mix with water falling down the drain. He turned the shower off after a few more minutes. He let out a relieved gasp as the heat left the room quickly. He stepped out, onto a towel and took another to softly and gently wipe his body tying his best to avoid jarring his injuries, but failing. He opened up one of his cabinet and took out his medical kit. It was a fairly good one including everything a person needed to heal from a paper cut to a gunshot wound.

He took out a medium sized bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide and poured it on a clean rag. Once it was wet he cleaned his cuts and burns with it, stinging as the Hydrogen Peroxide cleansed the wound of bacteria. He carefully wrapped the bandages around his wounds, tying them tightly and flinching with the pain. He slowly put on his new clothes and cleaned all evidence of his injuries from the bathroom floor and sink.

* * *

He made his way downstairs, noticing that John had come down and left for work, his still-warm mug of tea was in the sink. He took a deep breath, he had to distance himself. He patted his jacket to make sure his phone was still there. Once he felt it he grabbed his keys and locked the doors, this time not covering his face. He had nothing to worry about.

He managed to make it to the car park of Scotland Yard without anyone noticing him or who he was or the fact that he was supposed to be dead. He saw Lestrade go to light a cigarette and shuddered at the object. He walked closer to him.

“Those things’ll kill you,” Sherlock said, coming out of his hiding place.

Lestrade froze, he stared at the man in front of him before he lowered his lighter and took the cigarette out of his mouth.

“Oh, you bastard!” Lestrade said.

“It’s time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Greg.” Lestrade stared at him, obviously confused at the fact that Sherlock somehow remembered his name. He lunged towards Sherlock, wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock grimaced slightly, not at the hug, like most people would think, but at his injuries.

 


End file.
